


Point Number Four

by MajorityRim



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond exploits these, Bonds mouth, Hands, M/M, Q has undiscovered kinks, Voice Kink, debriefing, did I mention hands?, lots of hands, not the song actual feelings, sensual feelings, shoulders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorityRim/pseuds/MajorityRim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While the list of things about James Bond that one could hate is a long one, there's also another list that Q has yet to really catalogue and consider. Of course, a Debriefing probably wasn't the best time to make a list of things about Bond in hindsight. Especially not a list of physical attributes that Q likes about Bond. Especially not when Bond is right there in the bloody room to catch him. Especially not when it gets the Quartermaster so painfully hot under the collar. </p>
<p>Turns out that James Bond isn't the only reckless bastard in MI6 after-all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Point Number Four

**Author's Note:**

> As in other works of mine (Not including any co-authored work) Quinton is the name that a Q I RP with uses, she's by far my favourite (I'm a little biased, she's my partner) so I decided to use that name. I find it a little easier than saying 'Q' all of the time instead, it helps the story flow a little better.
> 
> Beta'd for me by thebookworm214 c:

There is a lot to appreciate when it comes to James Bond. A hell of a lot, really, now that Quinton thinks about it. There’s also a lot that Quinton doesn’t appreciate though, and he would be much more comfortable at making that sort of list not just mentally, but quite vocally. He could stand up and make a presentation about all the things that 007 does to drives him up the wall like he was taking a fourth grade maths test; he’s certainly done it in the past, normally after Bond brings him back what looks like a robot’s shit and expects Q to be able to fix it for him like he’s some sort of bloody miracle worker. Standing there smugly trying to suggest that it’s perfectly fine really because at least he brought it all back this time and it is in one piece, just not in the right shape and the shape was never really specified so Q has no right to be furious that so much hard work has to go in the bin. That list, he could recite in his sleep. That list, Quinton knows inside and out.

And yet here Q is, sitting in Bond’s latest debriefing, having done his part and given his speech on just how much Bond had been able to break on his mission. On just how much money he’d managed to inevitably spend on Q Branch’s behalf with such destruction, free now to think on the things that he actually liked about James. Completely free to zone out and ignore the grislier details of the mission, Quinton was staring at Bond much to his own embarrassed dismay, enjoying the view as secretively as he could and cataloguing just what it was that he liked about the infamous 007.

Number One. The upward curl of James’ lip when he says something that gets him into trouble. That sly, enigmatic grin that tells whoever he’s speaking to that he really doesn’t care at all what they think. That wonderful smile, that when directed at Q, is infuriating: enough to make his blood boil and take ten years off his life from the sheer stress of trying to keep up with a man so infatuated with himself. That smile that he can lose himself in while Bond talks, delivers his statement about the affairs he’s had with people in the field, or with just how he broke his watch when he shouldn’t have been anywhere near a cliff face in the first place. A weapon just as much as anything that he is kitted with. Worse even perhaps because that smile unlocks more doors than Bond’s issued lock-pick has. That smile has caused more hearts to change sides and spill crucial information that has helped both James and MI6 in their efforts. A twitch, that’s all it takes, and he has whatever he wants.

That smile that would fit so nicely pressed up against Quinton’s own lips, cruel and satisfied and completely in control of something that started off so innocent and is about to dissolve into something far more erotic. James’ smile wrapped around his own on Quinton’s desk perhaps, his clothing hitched up and his glasses falling off his nose, a powerful hand on Q’s shoulder pressing his back into the stapler which doesn’t budge and move out of the way, rather it digs into the small of his back bringing a pleasure from pain that Quinton didn’t know he could enjoy and-

And that’s quite enough of that thought. They are in a debriefing for Christ’s sake. What the hell does Quinton think he’s doing? He needs something else to focus on. Anything, God, something that isn’t that winning smile. Something that will help the ghost of a stapler that was never in his back fade away. Turning his gaze away from Bond’s smile, Q tries to focus on something else, anything really. A new point to count, Quinton knows there’s plenty of those.

Number Two. Yes. Thank God for Number Two. The silhouette of Bond’s shoulders in his bespoke suit. The small movements of broad strong arms in clothing that is almost as fine as the man in them. Shoulders moving with such deceptive looseness, ready to become sharp, strong, powerful at a second’s notice. Shoulders that have heaved and worked to pull James up from perilous locations (the top of buildings, cliffs, ski lifts), which have worked in the gym as James preforms pull ups: one, two, three, ten, twenty, how many can he do in one set, Q wonders? Sweat forming on James’ brow as arms work to pull up and hold, down again. Up and hold and down again. Could James pull Q up like that, hold him tight as he fumbled with his belt for a quick fuck in the locker room? No, Bond wouldn’t fumble, it would be purposeful, his belt would come undone with ease, he wouldn’t even take the whole thing off. Just undo it enough for the purpose of the mission for lack of a better term. Up against the lockers, pressed tight against cold metal and James body still hot from his work out. Hands running down Q’s side, gripping thighs just for fun, trying to leave bruises for Quinton to find the next morning as he showers. Hands spreading Q’s legs apart in that same deceptive loose way that James always carries himself. Hand’s steading Q as he tries to relax and inevitably fails, a thumb running gently over Q’s bottom lip. Calming him, checking on him while still whispering filthy things with the help of point Number One. A hand dipping behind to squeeze Quinton’s ass, permission to continue, knowing the answer already, no intention to stop.

_Or_ Q reminds himself, flustered more now thinking about Bond’s bloody shoulders than he was than thinking about the smirk. He could focus on the meeting and stop thinking about James bending him over a desk in the middle of MI6 or shagging him in the locker room where somebody might spot them. Then again, he’s already this far down the rabbit hole. James glances over to Quinton as if Q’s been vocalising everything he’s been daydreaming about before turning back to Mallory, shrugging off his suit jacket and complaining about how hot Mallory always likes to keep the board rooms.

Number Three. Q catalogues it carefully, feigning his own disinterest in the meeting and what’s being discussed so that Bond won’t look back over for a second guess at what’s going through his Quartermaster’s mind. Number Three. The holster that sits so neatly across Bond’s back. That holds what James probably considers to be his wife: The Walther. It holds a different sort of appeal to Q. An appeal that Quinton himself can’t quite pin down into one area for sure. Perhaps it’s the danger that comes with such a weapon. Or perhaps the danger that comes from the Walther being in James’ hands specifically. It could be too, the sense of pride that comes in knowing that Quinton himself worked on that gun, that he’s made it perfect for James and in turn, it’s one of the few things that James always makes sure to bring home in one piece. Or, it could also be the way that the Walther fits so snugly in James’ hands. That is certainly a sight to see. Finger poised just over the trigger, no chance of James accidentally firing it as he stands on the MI6 range breathing in and out, in and out, finger twitching out of years of training, never making it close enough to the trigger to squeeze and fire, but still there with deadly intent. Of the way that James uses it on the field, a far grimmer prospect but somehow equally as exciting in some way that Quinton doesn’t know how to explain to himself. Q’s gift to James, the perfect weapon fitted expertly to his needs; worked for hours, until the Walther like an extension of James himself. Hands and weapon moulding so neatly together that at times it is almost impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Obviously, Q inwardly sighs; there’s a few more things that excite him than he is aware of. Still, newly discovered kinks or not, there is something that Q cannot deny. The fact that all three of his previous points, (and many more points after that no doubt, really, Q spends a lot of time thinking about Bond and all the little pieces of him) come back to one glaringly obvious point about James that Q is infatuated with.

Number four.

James Bond has wonderful hands.

Hands that could kill a man, that have killed a man, many men actually. Hands that are skilled and precise no matter what they are doing. They hold a martini glass with the same fondness that they do the Walther. They slide effortlessly over the body of anybody that 007 decides to seduce, whether for a mission or for personal interest, working to bring pleasure to every small part of his bedded partner that James himself can reach. Q’s seen as much first hand through video feeds from countless missions where surveillance is as much a key to success to the information that James can gather in bed.

Those hands, _James’ hands_ , know just where to hold, where to grip, where to touch. They know every part of the human body intimately and know just how to use that knowledge to the best of their advantage. Q in his state glances over to the offending objects, licking his lips without even realising, sucking in a breath, admiring hands that he cannot recall ever touching him. Not properly, not with purpose. Not the way that Bond uses his hands outside their everyday use. They have, of course, touched in the same way that Quinton has touched the hands of many of the other employees in MI6. It hasn’t been a complete blanket ban on touching somehow. They’ve touched over file transfers, James’ fingers never lingering for an extra touch no matter how much Quinton might crave it. During weapons briefing when Q has to pry all sorts of dangerous weapons from Bond’s hands to protect his office, no dubious intention there in the brief connection with calloused, well worked hands. Cold, scolding touches all of the time. Swats from Quinton as he tells James off. None of the warmth that he knows Bond’s hands are filled with. None of the desire that they offer, the promise of so much more than a gentle caress…

“Are you alright, Q? You look awfully red.” It’s Mallory that asks, thank God. Bond is loitering in the corner, the briefing over without Q even realising that it has finished. Too busy being unprofessional and fantasising about a double-oh agent’s hands. He missed almost all of the meeting in lieu of perving on James Bond’s hands. He missed- oh God, he’s red? His brain finally catches up to Mallory’s observation of him and suddenly, Q’s mouth feels dry and the room is entirely too small for him to feel any sort of arousal, brought back to the real world with a harsh slap across the face. It’s like somebody has put a giant flood light onto him, pinning him in place. _‘Were you thinking about naughty things, Quartermaster?’_ It only serves to make Quinton go redder, he’s sure.

“Q?”

“Ah, yes sir, I apologise. I’ve perhaps spent one too many nights up at Q Branch working.” Quinton’s lie isn’t half as good as he knows it could be: believable but delivered like a teenage boy just caught with a cigarette in his mouth who’s desperately trying to deny the existence of such a cigarette. Mallory chooses to ignore the delivery which must be a blessing from some higher power. Luckily, the man is as focused on work as Q himself normally is and makes the decision himself that Q is lying more about the work he’s doing than the amount that he’s done.

“Yes, well, we’ve all got projects we want to work on, but remember that if you fall asleep in your office during working hours, it’s a mandatory trip to Medical and at least 48 hours off for leave.” Mallory reminds. Q isn’t really paying attention though, his eyes have moved back over to Bond, point Number One distracting him as he brings his hand up to scratch at the small amount of stubble that’s formed on his chin throughout his mission.

_“Q?”_

“What? Yes, yes, I know. I won’t fall asleep sir, I’m fine.”

“Yes well, I doubt there’d be any convincing you else-wise, you’re as bad as 007.” Mallory sighs, the sound of a man who puts up with far more than the head of MI6 might be expected to as far as employees went. “Back to work you two, and if I catch you napping, Q, I will send you down to Medical. Don’t think that I won’t.” He leaves, busy as always, another meeting to attend or another agent to scold no doubt. Quinton is left alone with Bond. He takes in a breath and isn’t sure if he manages to let it back out.

The room decidedly shrinks again because suddenly James Bond is very close and points One and Four are threatening to team up with point Two to cause Q a hell of a lot more sexual frustration than he’d ever admit to happening. He’s definitely not let that breath out.

“Is there something in my teeth?” Bond asks, lingering over Quinton, standing almost directly behind him. Q imagines that he’s staring right over the top of him, Point Two there in full out of sight but not out of mind. Q shifts in his seat.

“I can’t say I pay particular attention to your teeth, 007.” Somehow, he manages to sound almost professional, though he doubts that it will help against Bond. He’s trapped now, he knows he is. This is Bond’s game to play how he wants and Quinton is incredibly excited and terrified to see just where it could lead.

“Then there’s something on my back, yes?” Bond drawls, slow and words somehow full of sexual intent despite his questioning. “A loose thread in my suit? That’s why I took it off, to check it over. Nothing I could see, perhaps you need your eyes checked.”

“Or perhaps I was just staring off into space.” Q bites back. He can’t help it, he’s embarrassed beyond compare; getting caught staring, God, what was he thinking? Stupid list. Stupid James Bond’s flawless bloody body. Oh God no, he sounds like a school girl.

“Which is why you spent most of your time looking at my hands then.” Bond cuts the self deprecation short, chuckling, finally moving on from just words.

James’ hands snake around Quinton’s shoulders, sending a shiver straight through his body, James kneading at his shoulders, pulling the tension out and replacing it with something else entirely. It’s enough to make Quinton melt into his seat, the breath finally escaping his lips. Point Number Four. Yes, Q likes point Number Four a lot.

“Or maybe,” Bond offers, still at Q’s shoulders though his head ducks down now so that his mouth is only inches away from Q’s ear. “Perhaps you were thinking about these.” Quinton’s certainly thinking about Bond’s hands now, that’s for sure. “Thinking about them on you, sliding down, under buttons, working them open so that your cardigan hangs there easy to take off.” Bond makes no move to do as such, hands still as they are, the same repetitive movement on his shoulders.

“Maybe,” Bond continues, “You were picturing them sliding off your cardigan, letting it bunch up somewhere around your elbows, sneaky little fingers opening up the first couple of buttons on your shirt, of them loosening your tie to give room for your shirt to fall open. Cold air against your skin, goosebumps all over, travelling down your spine like tiny little kisses from my fingertips to you.” It’s heaven and hell all at once. Bond detailing but not acting. Not making a single move, crowded over Q just as he imagined, but not instigating anything. He opens his mouth to protest, to play it off and leave so he can have a quick wank in the men’s bathroom before going back to work, but every fibre of his body is pulsing with want and he can’t find it in himself to actually want this to stop. Quinton wants it more than anything, needs it. God he wants Bond, wants his hands, wants all of the insufferable double O seven.

“Where would I go from there, I wonder.” James muses, one hand travelling up, over Q’s neck, a thumb scratching over the top of his spine while fingers idly explore more sensitive parts of the neck before they move up and into Q’s hair, scratching at his scalp, splaying out as if they belong there, as if his hair is their own property to play in. The other hand is more adventurous; it moves down over Q’s chest. No buttons are undone, his cardigan isn’t pushed aside in the name of exploration, nothing. Bond lets his hands wander, let’s it sit over were Quinton’s heart is under layers of fabric but nothing else. He’s teasing, taking it slow, not as he details. James is up to something else entirely, something that doesn’t involve undressing Quinton right now and it’s _infuriating._

“Perhaps I would move to your nipple,” James purrs, that smirk so evident in his voice. “Sensitive little thing, taking it between my thumb and my index finger, rolling tiny little circles, pinching just enough to make it hurt and plenty enough to make it feel good. You’d suck in a breath, wouldn’t you? Start to breathe heavier, start to squirm in your seat but I’d put money on you still not saying anything.” His hands retreat from there, returning to their place on Q’s shoulders, returning to kneading, back to not enough contact. Quinton could deck Bond right there. He won’t though, James has him wrapped too tightly around his litter finger.

“I’d pull you from that chair and hold you flush against me, my cock against your ass, both of us still clothed, easy enough to just walk out and leave you there. And you’d know that before I even left, you’d know that I was considering leaving you like this and then you’d speak. Then and only then, isn’t that right, Q? You can’t bear the idea of me leaving you now like this.”

“James.” It comes out like a breath, quiet and with a small needy whine, Quinton past the point of trying to deny anything that James is taunting him with. Past the point of considering the ramifications and of HR. He is right after all, Q can’t bare the idea of James leaving now, not like this, not when there is so much promised to come. _“James.”_ He manages again. _“Please.”_

“I’d move a hand to your wrist, those beautiful wrists of yours, bring it up to my mouth and kiss the bone, worship every small part of you. Every paper cut and every scar from work.” Bond does as he describes, finally breaking the abstinence, breaking the seal holding the both of them from flinging one another at each other. It’s like a switch has been flicked and with it Quinton turns quickly in his chair, nearly tripping over it as he grabs Bond by the shirt and drags him into a ferocious kiss. There’s a pleased laugh from Bond but Q can’t bring himself to be irritated by it. Bond’s hands are on him, finally properly touching him. It’s perfect, more than he could have ever imagined and yet, as fast as it began, it’s over. Bond is pulling away, there’s the smirk, the loose movements as he steps away and then, readjusting himself, it’s as if Bond never even touched Q.

“Your office, ten minutes.” James winks, picking up his suit jacket and heading out the door. “And after, a nap. I think we both could make use of 48 hours, don’t you think?”

Point Number Five. Quinton, dishevelled and in dire need to regain some composure adds to his list. James Bond, if nothing else, makes good use of all of his resources. Which much to Q’s delight, will include 48 hours of point number four.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are more than welcome ^0^


End file.
